


Underneath Your Skin

by pandoras_chaos



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Dirty Talk, Frottage, M/M, No actual sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Verbal Sex, Voice Kink, awkward fangirl cabbie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-10
Updated: 2014-02-10
Packaged: 2018-01-11 20:09:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1177408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pandoras_chaos/pseuds/pandoras_chaos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“The arrogant sod could probably <i>talk</i> me to orgasm if he so much as tried.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Underneath Your Skin

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this _ages_ ago and basically forgot about it until now. It started as a discussion with scarletcurls about a certain actor's incredibly ~~seductive~~ addictive voice, and just kind of went from there. Thanks, as ever, to the lovely scarletcurls for the inspiration and beta :D
> 
> Title borrowed from Bastille.

**Underneath Your Skin**

 

Sherlock is halfway through his explanation of the Grottburgh case when he hears it:

“The arrogant sod could probably _talk_ me to orgasm if he so much as tried.”

Sherlock pauses mid-sentence and whips his head around, just catching the edge of mirth on Sergeant Whitmore’s face as John smirks conspiratorially and leans in to whisper something in her ear. Whitmore blushes prettily and murmurs something back, batting her eyelashes and acting coy, which is a completely ridiculous and painfully obvious ploy. Sherlock feels his gut clench as John follows her movement, leaning in and saying words without meaning, likely sharing another joke at Sherlock’s expense. It’s blatant flirting, which Sherlock has seen on John often enough, but something about the way John is touching her arm grates heavily on his nerves.

Lestrade clears his throat pointedly and Sherlock’s attention is once again arrested by deduction and reason. He spares barely a glance towards John when he comes in minutes later, folding an absurdly obvious scrap of lined, police-issued notepad paper, and sliding it into his jacket pocket. Sherlock’s glance is pointedly withering, but John has a dopey grin on his face and hardly seems to notice.

Sherlock’s attention is divided between the explanation of the case he’s just solved, and the inexplicable curve of John’s ear. This distraction with his flatmate is beginning to get in the way of the work, and that is something Sherlock will absolutely not tolerate. Clearly something must be done.

: :

Sherlock ponders what to do about John late in bed some nights later, staring up at the ceiling as though it might hold the answers to this ridiculous distraction. The easiest solution would be to engage in sexual intercourse with someone else, to slake the lust that seems to creep around the edges of his vision every time he’s within sight of John. However, the thought of touching anyone else, of someone else touching _him_ is distinctly unpleasant. He feels his body recoil at the thought, and quickly dismisses the idea.

The issue seems to be convincing John to forego his delusions of strict heterosexuality. He obviously wants Sherlock, even if he’s not aware of it himself yet. The telltale way his eyes follow Sherlock’s tongue as he licks his lower lip, the way his eyes dilate slightly whenever Sherlock brushes a little too close for conventionality, the fact that he doesn’t even protest anymore when Sherlock touches him a little too intimately in public: a hand a hair lower than the small of his back, long fingers on his hip, his chest flat against John’s back as they stake out a cramped location.  It’s blatantly obvious that he is attracted to Sherlock and that his body is more than willing to submit to its desires.

Snatches of the overheard conversation earlier in the week filter through Sherlock’s mind and he feels a glorious moment of absolute clarity. The smirk he aims at the ceiling is entirely predatory.

: :

They are hurrying after a criminal-- a petty thief who got himself tangled into an unfortunate situation that landed him in way over his head-- when Sherlock allows John to pass him, deliberately slowing his gait as John rushes past, fingers twitching towards the gun at small of his back. Without warning, Sherlock throws a hand out and grabs John around the elbow, swinging him cleanly into the narrow alley and crowding up behind him. John stills at once, senses on high alert; that predatory, protective instinct that made him an excellent soldier instantly honed and searching for the threat.

“Quiet, John,” Sherlock murmurs, low and silky. John seems to hold his breath, neck twitching as he strains to hear whatever it is Sherlock stopped for. Sherlock smirks and presses closer, feeling the tension that seeps out of John as his fighting instincts ratchet up another notch.

“We don’t want anyone else to hear what I intend to do with you,” Sherlock purrs, and John stiffens immediately. Sherlock brushes his fingers up John’s wrist before gripping him hard around the arm and pulling him closer.

“Sherlock, what--” John whispers, his voice tight and strained.

Sherlock pitches his voice low, murmuring so close to John’s ear that his lips brush the shell of it as he articulates. “You want it, John. There’s no point in denying it. I’ve seen the way you look at me, the way your eyes wander and linger in places an entirely straight flatmate’s shouldn’t.” John shivers and sucks in a breath, and his bicep beneath Sherlock’s hand tenses. Sherlock flexes his fingers in response and pushes himself impossibly closer, his body plastered up against John’s back in the putrid alley.

“Do you even know what I’m going to do to you, John?” Sherlock purrs, enjoying the way John’s body responds to the low tones. John sways almost imperceptibly and shakes his head minutely. Sherlock can feel that his grin isn’t entirely tame.

“As soon as we solve this case, I’m going to take you home, strip you naked and fuck you within an inch of your life.” John moans so softly Sherlock is almost certain he misheard. “But first, I’m going to tease you, John. You’ve never been fucked, have you?”

Sherlock can feel the jolt that physically shocks through John’s body every time he says the word _fuck_ , so he continues to purr the obscenity, paying special attention to his elocution. The word is like a physical caress, John’s skin responding in rippling shudders and telling gooseflesh. He hears John swallow audibly and buries his nose behind John’s ear, inhaling the intoxicating scent of him: testosterone and gun oil and antiseptic and earl grey tea and pheromones.

“I’ll have to stretch you first, John,” Sherlock continues, allowing his mind to spin the fantasy out into articulation. “My cock is rather larger than the single finger you’ve ever slid into yourself while wanking over the thought of me.” John shudders again and groans, the sound almost lost against the noise of heavy London traffic. “What did you imagine, I wonder? Were you bent over the kitchen table? Or perhaps flat on your back in the middle of the sitting room, my cock filling you up and pounding into you until you begged for mercy?” John jerks involuntarily and Sherlock grins into his hair.

“I don’t think so,” he continues. “I think you were spread out decadently across my sheets, John. I think the thought of my scent surrounding you, choking your senses, forcing you to focus only on me as I slide first one of my long fingers, and then two slowly into you, and watching you as you fall apart completely at my hand is what makes you come.” John shudders so violently he nearly throws Sherlock off. Instead he slides his right hand down the side of John’s jacket until he can slip his fingers beneath the hem of John’s ubiquitous jumper.

“That’s how tonight is going to go, John,” Sherlock rumbles, the vibrations of his chest reverberating through John and resonating through his bones. “I’m going to take you apart and put you back together using only my hands, tongue and cock. You’re _mine,_ John, and tonight I’m staking my claim.

“I’ll bring you into my room and peel off your clothing, one piece at a time. I like to explore as I work, John. You know how inquisitive I can be. I’ll start with your jumper,” he tugs on the offending garment a little and grins again at the sharp intake of breath from John. “I’ll push it up your stomach, taking your shirt and vest with it and tease that tantalizing line of hair down the base of your abdomen with my tongue. I bet you taste _fantastic_.”

John is panting now, and his hips are rocking involuntarily, and Sherlock feels his own body responding, blood flowing south to fill out his surprising erection. He can sense the power he has over John, and it is heady and addictive. He bends even closer and lets his lips brush against the pink shell of John’s ear as he continues to murmur, letting all the filth of pent up arousal darken his voice.

“I know you’ve thought about the sight of my lips stretched around your cock, John. I see the way you stare at my mouth when I speak. I know each and every one of your dirty little fantasies, and I fully intend to fulfill every single one of them.”

“Jesus,” John breathes. He is visibly trembling now, and Sherlock decides to chance it. Slowly, so very slowly, he runs the fingers of his right hand across the denim over John’s hip, angling in until he finds the solid, throbbing ridge of John’s erection. He strokes one long finger down the line of it, swallowing back his own vicious groan of pure lust, and brings it back up, scratching at the harsh fabric with his fingernail. John shudders violently again and Sherlock pulls away before he does something completely unreasonable, like bending John over the nearest skip and fucking him right in this disgusting alleyway.

He spins on his heel and leaves John there, hard and panting against the bricks, secure in the knowledge that he will follow as soon as he’s composed himself. Sherlock presses the butt of his hand against his own cock in attempt to ease some of the pressure. They have a criminal to catch, after all.

: :

Hours later, they are in Lestrade’s office at Scotland Yard. John still looks a little off kilter and he’s studiously avoiding Sherlock’s eyes. Sherlock grins to himself, knowing that all the various scenarios Sherlock described in that filthy alley are playing themselves across John’s brain. He can read the animalistic lust easily in John’s movements, in the way he skirts around the desk when Sherlock paces nearer to him, as though he’s afraid he’ll pounce if Sherlock comes too close. It’s a heady feeling, the idea that he’s gotten into John’s brain finally and has begun to chip away at his selfcontrol.

Sherlock watches him with lust-darkened eyes as John brushes off Lestrade’s offer of coffee from the canteen. Lestrade excuses himself as his mobile rings, automatically headed in the direction of the promise of caffeine. John twitches and settles a hip against the desk, eyes darting towards Sherlock in a mixture of anticipation and alarm.

Sherlock is on him instantly, crowding John back against the edge of the desk and looming over him. He takes a moment to breathe in John’s shocked submission and arousal before he licks a clean line up John’s neck and bites at the hinge of his jaw. John’s hands are gripping hard at Sherlock’s prominent hip bones and he leans closer, darting his tongue around John’s ear before whispering:

“I could take you right here, John. I could drop to my knees right now, in front of Lestrade, Donovan and the rest of the MET, take your cock out and suck you down to the root. I know you’ve thought about it: about the image of me on my knees in front of you, my lips wrapped around the head of your cock as I slowly take you down into my throat. I wish you’d gag me with it, John. I want to feel your prick jerk against the back of my tongue, I want to suffocate on your come before you climb onto my cock and ride me until I can’t see straight. I’ll scream your name as I come, John. I do it all the time.”

John jerks against him, fingers biting into his hips through layers of wool and cotton. “Christ, Sherlock,” he whimpers and Sherlock cannot help it as he rolls his hips forward, allowing his hard cock to rub with slow intent against the inside of John’s thigh.

He steps away swiftly and relocates to the opposite corner of the room, sending a smoldering look at John, who hastily rearranges his clothing right before Lestrade bustles back into the room, cup of coffee in hand. Sherlock’s mouth stretches into a slow smirk at John’s flushed cheeks.

It appears they have a new lead, and Sherlock pointedly ignores the desperate look John shoots him as he tells Lestrade that of _course_ they’ll go.

: :

John is on edge and twitchy, and Sherlock knows exactly what it is he’s trying valiantly not to think about. He’s been half hard all day, ever since Sherlock muttered dirty little secrets into his ear in that alley, and he’s obviously uncomfortable in his embarrassed arousal. Sherlock’s lips stretch into a filthy smirk as he formulates his plan. He already knows where the killer is, and exactly how long he has before they encounter the man on his way to his ill-advised meeting point.

He instructs Lestrade to head north around the public park and meet them in a forty five minutes at the fountain. Before he can protest, Sherlock wraps his fingers around John’s wrist and tugs him along, ducking behind the stone wall of the nearest public toilets.

“Sherlock,” John says, and there’s a steely warning in his tone, utterly countered by the heat and desperation in his eyes. His back hits the stone and Sherlock leans into him, one of his narrow legs tucked delicately between John’s strong thighs.

“I want you, John,” Sherlock whispers, licking at his own bottom lip and watching in triumph as John’s eyes magnetically follow the movement. “I am going to have you, in any and every way possible, but first,” he nudges his knee up and is gratified to feel John’s cock pulse rhythmically against him. “First I think it’s high time I make you come.”

John whimpers and bites his bottom lip, but he doesn’t protest as Sherlock leans closer, his breath dancing across John’s neck as he murmurs into his ear: “Just imagine it, John. I’ll take you apart so slowly, making you ache before allowing you to finally orgasm. I’ll bend you over the arm of the sofa, strip you and start at the small of your back. I have very long fingers, John; very flexible and agile. I can do things inside of you that you’ve never even imagined. I’ll stretch you open with my fingers first, sliding first one in, then two, getting you ready for my cock, because I _will_ fuck you John. I will fuck you hard and deep and rough, just the way you want it.”

John’s cock jerks hard against Sherlock’s thigh. He can feel it twitch and thicken as he speaks, and rocks his hips forward in encouragement, dragging the head of his own prick against John’s hip bone.

“Just when you think you’re going to come, I’ll pull away and drop to my knees. I imagine you taste amazing, John. I’ll lick you open, spread you apart with my thumbs and press the tip of my tongue inside of you, feeling your tight hole clench as you begin to shatter.”

John gasps, his fingers fisting tightly in the thick fabric of Sherlock’s coat and he shudders. Sherlock pulls his leg back a fraction, breaking contact as he runs his tongue up the side of John’s neck. “I’ll lick into you, thrusting my tongue inside you as far as I can. I’m going to love feeling you open to me, your muscles quivering and begging me for more. I know nobody’s ever licked you there, John. I know how much you want it, the feeling of my warm, wet tongue dragging over your hole as your balls draw up. And then, John, right as you’re about to come without even being touched, then I’ll stand up and slide into you, thrust my thick cock deep and hard into your tight arse until you cry out my name.”

John groans, stiffens and arches back, his cock pulsing rhythmically against Sherlock’s thigh as he comes, untouched in his pants. Sherlock’s grin is sharp and dangerous, and he clutches at John’s neck harder than he should as he grinds his own hips into the mess, riding the last twitches of John’s cock until he feels the heat of his own orgasm rush through his limbs.

They stand there, panting for a few seconds before reality slams back into Sherlock’s brain. This wasn’t meant to go this far, but he somehow can’t regret it; not with John collapsed forward and gasping against his chest. He looks dazed and debauched, and Sherlock cannot help but lean forward and slide his tongue delicately along John’s bottom lip. John starts and flushes bright red, apparently realizing exactly where they are and why his pants are starting to become uncomfortably cool.

“Oh my _god_ ,” he whimpers, the panic evident in his face as he pushes at Sherlock, trying to dislodge him.

Sherlock is at a loss, for once, of what to say. He’s let this progress too far too quickly, and he can tell he’s beginning to lose John to the fear of discovery, to the reality of what they’ve done in this public location for anyone to see. Without really thinking, Sherlock pushes forward and thrusts his tongue into John’s mouth, swallowing his startled protest and crowding him back against the wall. He ignores the cold, clammy sensation in his pants and rolls his hips forwards, earning a gasp and another whimper from John.

Sherlock can feel the exact moment John decides not to give a fuck, because he melts into the kiss, all restraint lost in the way he tangles his fingers into the back of Sherlock’s hair. His surrender is evident in the tilt of his chin, the shiver that runs through his skin. Sherlock can feel his grin take on a predatory edge and pulls back to mouth at John’s jaw while he silently calculates that they have about two minutes left before they must act.

“I’m not finished with you yet, John Watson,” Sherlock growls in his ear, reveling in the shudder his tone produces. “We’re going to complete this case and then I’m going to take you home and unravel you so slowly you won’t even remember your own name.” John whimpers and nods once, pulling back a fraction to find Sherlock’s eyes. Sherlock lets every possessive instinct show through his gaze and allows all the heat of his barely-slaked arousal spark between them like an inferno.

He’s about to lean in again to taste John’s perfect mouth when a cry comes from their left. His brain snaps to attention immediately, and he’s around the corner so fast he barely sees John sway on his feet before clumsily stumbling forward to catch him up.

Lestrade looks at them a bit askance when he finally meets them at the fountain, the criminal already cuffed and subdued in John’s steady and capable hands. Sherlock expects they must look like guilty teenagers: all puffy red lips and tousled hair and sticky underwear. He smirks as John flushes bright red again, but keeps his gloating to a minimum. It would not do to embarrass John further tonight and ruin the slow burn of arousal he can practically feel coming off of John in thick waves.

: :

The wait at Scotland Yard is agony, and Sherlock can feel his impatience ruffle around him at the ineptitude of the staff. All he wants is to get John home so he can wreck him as badly as Sherlock feels wrecked himself, but between Anderson’s incompetence and Lestrade’s incessant questions that’s looking like a slim prospect indeed. Sherlock feels a slight twinge of guilt when John shifts in his seat and winces, the obvious feeling of congealing semen apparently as uncomfortable in John’s pants as it is in Sherlock’s boxer briefs. He catches John’s eye and smirks, guilt overridden by smug satisfaction as John’s flush darkens, but he holds Sherlock’s gaze with a matching heat and arousal.

Sherlock’s patience is wearing thin, and he’s about to snap at Lestrade when John stands up and covers the distance between himself and the desk, leaning forward on his fists like an overly aggravated bull dog.

“Are we done here?” he grits out, softening the obvious gruffness with a tight smile. Lestrade pauses mid-sentence and gazes at John with obvious bemusement.

“I… suppose we can be,” he says cautiously. Lestrade’s brow furrows and he takes a closer look at John, clearly noticing his obvious agitation and flushed cheeks for the first time. “What’s got your knickers in a twist then?”

Sherlock snorts softly and just manages to check his amusement as John shoots him a withering glare. “I’ve got a bit of unfinished business at home that can’t wait,” John says steadily, keeping his eyes fixed pointedly at Sherlock, who cannot help the lecherous grin as it spreads slowly across his lips.

Lestrade’s eyebrows climb up towards his hairline as he glances swiftly between the two of them before clearing his throat and shifting uncomfortably in his chair. “Alright,” he says slowly, averting his eyes in obvious embarrassment. “Off you go, then. I’ll call round early tomorrow morning.”

Sherlock nods in his general direction and licks his bottom lip slowly, watching avidly as John’s pupils dilate by degrees.

“Or… not,” Lestrade finishes in utter astonishment. Sherlock is no longer paying attention to him, all of his focus honed directly on John as he straightens with military precision and turns on his heel before marching decisively out the office door. Sherlock visibly appreciates the way John’s denims hug the enticing curves of his arse as he moves and allows some of the hunger he’s been experiencing all day to show plainly on his face, feeling his eyes darken with obvious intent.

“Evening, _Gregory_ ,” Sherlock purrs, sparing the shocked man a conspiratorial wink before lazily sidling out of the office behind John and completely ignoring the heated “ _bloody hell”_ that drifts out after him.

John is already in a taxi when Sherlock strolls out onto the pavement, anticipation and desire so sharp he can taste them on the back of his tongue. He sweeps gracefully onto the seat and leans forward to tell the driver the address, aware of how low and gravelly his voice sounds in the confined space. The cabbie spares him a glance and looks away quickly, her cheeks pinking as she pulls away from the kerb.

Sherlock smirks and rests back against the cheap leather seats, overly aware of John’s incessant scrutiny. Sherlock resolutely ignores him, savoring the burn of pheromones through his veins and pulling out his mobile to tap aimlessly at the keys. John huffs a little and shifts, running his own damp palm across his thigh in an unfairly distracting manner that holds Sherlock’s interest immediately. He wants to reach across the space between them and run his own fingers along the denim, feel the residual heat of John’s skin through the material, the bunch of muscle and sinew flexing as John moves. He realizes he’s staring a second too late and snaps his attention back to his mobile, knowing full well that John has caught him out.

This feels dangerous, and Sherlock’s blood thrums with adrenaline. He’s barely aware of the taxi crawling through afternoon Westminster traffic, all of his focus arrested by John’s simple presence next to him. The very air seems charged with pent up arousal and Sherlock is nearly vibrating with it. His mobile falls with a soft thump onto the seat between them as he turns, feral carnality testing the edges of his minimal restraint.

John is looking at him through his pale lashes, the ever-present blush staining his cheeks a flattering pink. His breath visibly stutters as he catches Sherlock’s eye and Sherlock wonders briefly what it is John’s seeing. He’s past caring however, when John licks his lower lip, the glisten of saliva proving too much for Sherlock’s tenuous control.

“Sherlock,” John breathes and something snaps. Sherlock lunges forward and swallows John’s groan against his tongue, long fingers coming to wrap around the back of John’s neck and hold him still as Sherlock drinks from his mouth with demanding force. John shudders against him, trying and failing to get his hand untangled from its squished position between them. Sherlock nips at John’s bottom lip, knowing full well that John’s groan is far too loud, but decidedly uncaring about the consequences.

“Christ,” the cabbie whispers, and she sounds just as breathless as John. Sherlock hides his grin against the side of John’s neck, feeling John’s Adam’s apple bob across his tongue as he swallows audibly.

“I cannot wait to be inside you, John,” Sherlock breathes into the slightly damp skin behind John’s ear, punctuating the statement with a small roll of his hips. “Fuck, I bet you feel incredible. So tight and hot.” He sucks at the hinge of John’s jaw, revelling in the way John’s whole body seems to tremble, hooked on the edge between oblivion and propriety.

The cabbie clears her throat pointedly and John stiffens immediately, apparently remembering exactly where they are. The heat coming off of him is absolutely staggering and Sherlock buries his face into John’s collar and _breathes_. He smells of testosterone and sweat, of warm wool and earl grey, of submission and adrenaline and Sherlock groans in frustration.

“What?” he demands, pulling himself away from John just far enough to shoot her a heated glare.

“Erm,” she says, still flushed and blinking at him in the rear view mirror. “We’re here.”

Sherlock glances out the window and realizes that the taxi has stopped completely. John is utterly wrecked and no help at all as Sherlock disentangles himself from their clumsy embrace, pulling himself together enough to pull a few notes out of his wallet and thrust them at the cabbie.

She hesitates before waving away the money, her eyes suspiciously dark as she glances between him and John. “No charge,” she says with a smirk. “If you ever need a ride, Mr Holmes, you just call on my cab, yeah?”

John looks positively mortified and ducks under Sherlock’s arm to flee towards the flat.

“Have a good night, Doctor Watson!” she shouts after him and flashes Sherlock a wide smile before licking her lips in obvious flirtation. “I follow the blog,” she says by way of explanation. She shoots him a cheeky wink and shifts pointedly in her seat. Sherlock smirks back at her and closes the door with a soft snick.

He saunters to the door of 221 and pushes it open, barely startled at all when he feels John slam into him from behind, grinding his newly reformed erection into the bottom edge of Sherlock’s arsecheek. Sherlock gasps despite himself and brings his forearms up to brace against the wall. John’s fingers are swift and sure, reaching around Sherlock’s trousers and deftly releasing the fastenings to stroke a chilly hand along the front of his pants.

“Do you know what happens now?” John breathes in his ear, heavy and laden with arousal. Sherlock shakes his head and arches back, aware of how he must look to John’s lust-darkened eyes. “Now I get to tell you all the things I’m going to do to _you_.”

“Oh,” Sherlock whispers, a thrill of desire curling up his spine and making his breathing ragged. His eyes sharpen and he can feel his skin flushing hot and red. “Tell me,” he growls.

John’s low chuckle is intoxicating and full of dark promise.

 

_Oh I feel overjoyed_   
_When you listen to my words_   
_I see them sinking in_   
_Oh I see them crawling underneath your skin_

_~Overjoyed, Bastille_


End file.
